


Nothing With You

by trepidatingboarfetus



Category: Grand Theft Auto Series (Video Games), Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Anniversary, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:00:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26521807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trepidatingboarfetus/pseuds/trepidatingboarfetus
Summary: It's a very special anniversary, both for the game and for Michael and Trevor. So here's a gift. :) Inspired by the Descendents' song Nothing With You, about wanting nothing more than to sit around doing nothing all day with the one you like.
Relationships: Michael De Santa/Trevor Philips
Comments: 9
Kudos: 32





	Nothing With You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thenomansland](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thenomansland/gifts).



> Today’s apparently the anniversary of what has become one of my all-time favorite games (San Andreas and Mafia 2 and 3 were probably my favorites before it), and this just popped into my head, kind of unwillingly, and wouldn’t leave me alone until it was written lol. So I couldn’t work on anything else until it was done. This was inspired by Nothing With You by Descendents. Anyway, Happy Anniversary, GTAV, and to our favorite Unholy Trinity and our favorite fucked up duo. :) I managed to get it in just before Midnight lol. 
> 
> (And if you look closely, parts of their conversation come from an actually in-game conversation I posted about yesterday where Trevor talks about Michael stalking him lmao, and then there’s Michael’s response.)
> 
> This is a gift to everyone, but I felt bad that a friend had too much work and couldn't do anything for the anniversary, so I hope they like this. <3

The soft hum of the 65 inch UHD TV created a nice white noise that almost lulled Michael into sleep; something that was rare for him, even in these somewhat _peaceful_ days. The house had quieted slowly over the span of the day, and something about it tingled at the base of his skull, nudging at him slightly, but he wasn't sure why. Even if he was considered, for all intents and purposes, _retired_ , when you've got that sort of sixth sense, you learn to not disregard it. 

But nothing felt out of the ordinary. Jimmy had finally secured some work even if it _was_ running errands and learning some tricks of the trade off Lester, and the boy was working out on top of that, so he couldn't complain anymore. Nothing suspicious there. 

Tracey was in college now and had classes from the early start of the morning. He couldn't be any prouder. There were moments it felt surreal that his baby girl was the first to be college material, but he _knew_ she'd always had some of the Townley brains if she could keep from doing dumb shit long enough for a quick shot to fame. 

He also knew that her and Franklin had been eyeing each other lately with all of the stealth and grace of cats in heat, but he knew Frank was a good kid -- and God help him because if he wasn't, he'd have Tracey, Mandy, AND Trevor to deal with, so Michael wouldn't even have time to lift a finger. There'd be nothing left. Well, he felt sorry for Frank too, if he was being honest because he had those three to deal with anyway if he even wanted to date Tracey. And just _her_ alone could be bad enough, some days.

Mandy had swooped in with a kiss before she'd left which was unusual for her but not entirely unwelcome. She was doing some sort of volunteering stuff lately that made her feel good about herself, and if it made her feel happy, he didn't care what it was. It could be Help A Ho, and he wouldn't give a damn as long as it kept her smiling and off his back. 

So here he was, the same sad sack of shit he'd always been. Franklin was busy -- he had a sneaky hunch that he AND Tracey were busy together. Solomon was busy, even if he _was_ busy with an idea for a movie that Michael had given, but he wasn’t the " _let’s sit and watch TV while we drink ourselves to death and reminisce about what could have been_ ” type. Hell, even Trevor’s goddamn phone was ringing and ringing, and he couldn’t figure out what that fuck could be up to that was so damn important that he couldn’t just pick up. Probably balls deep in someone at the Vanilla Unicorn, lucky fucking bastard. 

Although, as he took a sip from his shot glass, he wasn’t sure if he was thinking that Trevor was the lucky one or that the one getting plugged was the lucky one, and that thought made him turn ten shades of red even though no one was around.

“Jesus, I need to get laid,” he groaned aloud, his head in his sweaty right hand nursing an oncoming headache. 

“What’s that about getting laid?” a very obnoxious, very Canadian voice boomed through the foyer of the house.

And in that moment, Michael couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so happy to hear it. “T! Why the fuck aren’t you answering your phone, you prick? I’ve been trying to call for hours!” he called from the living room while channel surfing, settling on Trevor’s favorite cartoon, Impotent Rage. 

“You know I love stalking, but that’s a bit overkill,” said Canadian answered as he placed something in the kitchen before he made his way into the living room, and it struck Michael with curiosity, but he figured it was just some of that awful Moosehead or fancy Pisswasser beer that shithead wannabe hipster drank from time to time, but he choked when he saw what Trevor was wearing and couldn’t stop staring. The amused Canadian stopped short of the sectional and noticed the TV, quipping, “Hey! This is a good one,” before plopping next to Michael and kicking his feet up on the ottoman. 

Michael was used to seeing him wear all manners of shit over the years, but he wasn’t used to actually seeing him look like he’d put honest-to-God effort into his appearance. His hair was freshly washed as was the rest of him, and he couldn’t remember the last time his best friend had smelled like he’d seen water, much less body wash or shampoo. His hair was growing longer again, and it fell into neat little curls against his neck. For whatever reason, he had on a nice black dress like the kind you’d go out on a date in or go dancing in, and Michael couldn’t help noting that it clung to him nicely.

Or that he’d shaved. Why the fuck had he shaved?

And he had on black Birkenstocks. Michael couldn’t even recall if he’d ever seen Trevor own a pair. He sure as hell hadn’t in North Yankton, but hell, nobody had. The summers had been mild and wet, so there wasn’t much sandal wearing. He remembered that the first pair he ever bought, himself, had been when they came to….

He didn’t want to think about that today.

“Maybe I just like spending time with you, T,” he started slowly, licking his lips, “and what’s with the special occasion? Were you on your way to a hot date?”

Trevor looked at him like he grew two heads and then laughed loudly. Maybe a little too loudly like he was compensating for something. “Good one, Mikey! And that’s sweet you like spending time with me, you fucking psycho. I’m here to hang out with you. Where the fuck else would I be today?”

Something wasn’t right, and Michael’s senses were picking at him again the way a kid picks at a scab until it bleeds. Trevor was acting nonchalant, but his eyes were darting all over the fucking place, including whatever was in the goddamn kitchen, so Michael tried a different approach because sometimes Trevor’s like dealing with a skittish animal, and he has to coax T a certain way or he’ll spook him too much which will just cause him to flee. “What’s in the kitchen?” he asked gently. 

Trevor audibly gulped but then shook himself the same way a big wet sheepdog would like he’s trying to rid himself of his nervousness. “It’s not much eh, just picked up a little something something while we sit around and relive the glory days since you’re an old fart and retired now,” he said with just a hint of sarcasm and ire in his voice as he folded his arms in front of him, a last-ditch effort of protection.

Michael stood up. “Well, if you’re going to sit on your ass, then I guess I’ll be the good host and bring it in.” And he dashed off towards the kitchen.

With Trevor hot on his heels. “Wait, Mikey! There’s no need to rush!”

And when Michael got in there, he was confused. There was what looked to be a box in a paper sack and two containers that smelled unhealthy and heavenly at the same time. He removed the box from the paper sack first and was hit with a blast from the past. 

_Lord Calvert Canadian_.

He remembered this shit. It may have been years, but Christ Almighty, he couldn’t forget it. It was the first drink he ever shared with T; a bottle procured illegally in those days, of course, and they’d huddled in a car for warmth as they’d drunk it, but then they’d huddled for warmth in other ways afterward.

He tried to hide the blush that crept onto his face but failed miserably, so he focused instead on the containers of food. The smell that wafted to his nostrils could only be one thing, but he wasn’t sure how the hell Trevor had managed it in Los Santos although he _was_ sure the slick Canadian had his ways. And with a flip of the lid, it was there in all its fatty, gravy goodness. “I’ll be damned. Poutine. Real poutine. Canadian bacon and scrambled eggs. Who the fuck makes this around here?”

Suddenly Trevor looked like a kid who knows that Santa is really the parents, and he grinned widely and leaned his weight into the island as he rested his chin in his right hand. “You think I’d be down here this damn long and wouldn’t find _real_ food? There’s a joint over by Paleto Bay--”

Michael snorted before he could even catch himself, but it was good-naturedly. “I _told_ you that you’re a goddamn hipster.”

Trevor looked at him so long that his eyes crossed, like he couldn’t figure out if he wanted to shoot Michael or just yell at him, and that made Michael laugh more as he dove into the poutine right there. He didn’t even care if the sounds he was making were animalistic; the shit was _good_ , and it had been forever since he last had it. If he were going to have a heart attack, this was the way to do it, dammit. 

He came up for air long enough to notice that Trevor wasn’t eating, that he was just watching Michael eat, and it was kind of creepy odd but also kind of sexy odd which both unfortunately or fortunately, depending on how he looked at it any day of the week, was all Trevor. “Uh, buddy? Something up?”

A very funny smile came to Trevor’s face then. “In a manner of speaking.”

 _Oh Jesus, Mary, and Joseph._ “What’s the deal, T? I feel like I’m missing something here.”

Michael will swear for years to come that he could see a glimmer of sadness in Trevor’s eyes, but Trevor will always dismiss it as _gas_ , when he answered softly, rather strangely for him, “You don’t know what today is.”

However somewhere deep inside, Michael already knew when he saw the whiskey. Hell, he already knew when everyone was gone. Maybe they knew before him. If he were to bet, he’d bet that Trevor had planned this down to having everyone out of the house somehow even if for a little while. 

How he’d managed that with Mandy, he would’ve loved to have known. But everyone has a price in Los Santos. Even the missus. 

He wasted no time filling the gap between him and Trevor as he embraced the slighter man in his arms and then pulled back to look him in the eyes. “Do you think I’d ever forget that moment, you fucking Canuck? Craziest moment of my life,” he chuckled.

Trevor looked back into his; eyes filled to the brim with a mix of seriousness, love, and pain close to the surface today, and it made Michael’s heart skip a beat. “Do you ever regret it, Michael?”

“Regret what?”

Trevor looked down at the ground. “Regret all of it. Regret me.”

That did it. He hadn’t seen Trevor like this since they were young. Yeah, he usually gave him grief about his actions, but damned if he didn’t prefer his manic, psychotic energy to his depressive spells. He worried about him the most then. 

Michael pulled him close again, first pressing a gentle kiss to the scar that split his top lip that he’d gotten well before he’d ever known the guy and then melted the rest of the way into his lips. When they parted, he whispered raggedly, trying to catch his breath, “Do I look like I regret it? Happy Anniversary.”

He hadn’t seen Trevor look bashful in full-on fifteen years or more. It was the best look he’d ever seen on him, even surpassing the hotter, private ones.

And as he grabbed the bottle along with the remaining food while letting himself be dragged into the living room by his happy Canadian best friend and sometimes lover, he figured there was no place else in life he’d rather be than right there doing nothing with the ones he loved the best. 


End file.
